


Little Matchstick Vitya

by gabapple



Series: NLAverse [15]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Fairy Tale Retellings, Grandfather Frost, M/M, Major Character Death (Sort of), NLA Canon, Shall We Read | yoilitmag, Storytime with Viktor, Tags Contain Spoilers, Young Victor Nikiforov, snow maiden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabapple/pseuds/gabapple
Summary: Young orphaned Vitya imagines what life could be before freezing to death in the cold, unforgiving streets of Saint Petersburg… which serves as a warning for Yuuri to always wear proper winter wear and an excuse to make him wear an adorable ushanka!





	Little Matchstick Vitya

**Author's Note:**

> This was my submission for Shall We Read Issue 3, which had the theme 'Space.' I'm an absolute fool for little Vitya AND for fairy tale retellings, so wanted to do a spin on Hans Christian Andersen's Little Matchstick Girl. It'd always deeply upset me growing up, which seemed like the perfect story for someone like NLA!Viktor. This was extra confirmed once I found out that the Disney short was set in Saint Petersburg instead of Denmark, like the original tale! 
> 
> It's sad, but I prefer to end all stories with hope, so try to stick with it. 
> 
> Some kudos:  
> \- EXTREME thanks to those who helped with this, especially my partner in crime, Mamodewberry, who beta read and held my hand while I poured hours and hours into the project.  
> \- Thanks to Cori, Mche, and the JGPs, who were my ever-present cheerleaders and helpers.  
> \- Much love and thanks to the YOI litmag staff for letting me be a part of this project, both in writing AND in art (!!!). It was a dream project to be able to illustrate my own writing for an anthology!!!  
> \- And thanks to [Shino](https://twitter.com/rainlikestars) for asking to collab and providing the final illustration, which is so beautiful. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

* * *

 

 

That night was the sort of night that stays in memory; so cold that the pipes froze, that steel shattered, and utilities failed in the less insulated parts of the city. It was a polar night that stretched on and on after the scant hours of daylight, the sun slipping into the sea after barely peeking above the horizon. On that sort of night, the weather talk was all in favor for a fresh snowfall. This cold, a good snowstorm would only trap what little heat was left in the earth in place of the empty, bitter air. Or at least it might slow down the wind a little.

So did people stay home by their fireplaces, bundled up in blankets? No! Of course not. It was New Year's Eve, and this is Russia.

There were parties to attend, celebrations to be had. Wind was no match for big, fur coats and scarves, and the snow couldn't do anything against good ushanka hats and nice, warm gloves. Ice met its match with wool valenki boots and extra layers under thick trousers or skirts. Good company, music, dancing, and lots and lots of food kept the winter darkness where it belonged.

If there was a lack of any of these, vodka made up the difference.

Many people filled the streets of Saint Petersburg, going here and there between parties and restaurants, theaters and hotels in search of celebration. The park had been flooded and iced, which was perfect for night skating, and everyone was having a wonderful time—  bumping into each other, laughing, and sharing mulled wine. It seemed that there was warmth to go around.

Soon, there would be fireworks above the city. At their parties, there would be many herring and all the caviar to go along with the freely-flowing drink. To a Russian in celebration, the cold almost didn't even matter. Why would it? They had nothing to worry about. So long as one was dressed for the weather and had good friends, it was the perfect night to be out and the best way to bring in the new year!

Which was why little Vitya was out there, too, though he had none of these things.

Oh, he had a coat, but it was much too large for him. His valenki, too, were worn like his gloves, which were missing several fingers because he hadn't been able to mend them well enough on his own. Not that he could complain; orphans didn't have much choice when it came to that sort of thing. His scarf was in good shape, at least— it kept his neck warm, and if he hunched his shoulders like a vulture when he walked, it covered his ears, too.

But it wasn't enough. He had no ushanka, and though he bundled the extra fabric of his coat close, it didn't keep the wind out like a proper one would.

"Why would little Vitya be out in the cold if he had no ushanka?" you ask. "He'll catch a cold if he doesn't freeze to death!"

You would be right, of course. This is what little Vitya tried to explain to his aunt and uncle, too, before they pushed him out onto the front step that night.

"It's New Year's Eve!" they said. "You must take advantage of the holiday, there are so many people out! Take these matchbooks; they have the company's ad printed on the back. Give them out to the professionals you see, and get their business cards in return. You can come home when you're all done."

Little Vitya eyed the satchel full of matchbooks. It looked heavy. "But nobody uses matches anymore. They all have lighters."

"Nonsense. Matches are classic and cigarette lighters run out of fuel. This is a night they won't want to! Now go, or we won't save any herring for you!"

So he went, taking the matchbooks with him into the dark, wintry night.

But he didn't go alone, at least. While Vitya had no love for matchbooks, advertisements, or for herring, he did have lots of love for his most loyal companion, Makkachin. The little poodle stayed close on the bus ride to the heart of the city, and closer still when they reached downtown. The parties were all in full swing, and they would easily get stepped on or separated if they weren't careful.

To his aunt and uncle's credit, there _were_ a lot of people out, and many of them looked professional— at least, to little Vitya's eye. The pair of them wandered the busy Dvortsovaya Square, squeezing past tightly packed clusters of party-goers, offering matchbooks to anyone who would pay any attention to him.

Unfortunately, these were few and far between, especially with the loud celebrations happening all around him.

"Excuse me, would you like a free matchbook? No? But it has really nice printing on it! Wait, where are you going?"

 

 

The boy and his dog were kicked out of parties and restaurants, theaters and hotels. They were pushed away in the crowds, and ignored on the ice rinks. A few people took matchbooks out of pity, but most of those ended up in the trash right before his eyes.

It wasn't as though he hadn't thought about throwing all of them away, himself. He'd wanted to throw the whole sack in the garbage the moment they'd been given to him! But… they were his family, and somehow, they always knew how to catch him in a lie. Coming back with no business cards or contacts wouldn't help his case at all.

Besides, the punishment should they find out…

He shuddered to think of it. No; it would be better to stay out all night if he had to.

Midnight came and went, and with it, the presidential speech, the big concerts, ice shows, and everyone's attention. Instead of taking a matchbook, someone handed little Vitya a single sparkler.

"Here, take this, my friend. Celebrate the new year!"

It was the exact opposite of what he felt like doing. Vitya said his thanks and took the sparkler, trudging along through the snow, though every step felt like he was dragging along giant blocks of ice. He was cold and tired, and very, very hungry. At least, with everyone distracted, he was able to do something about one of those things.

"Look, Makkachin. It's like they've left us a fridge full of food, wide out in the open."

Stealing from balconies wasn't a good thing to do, but neither was starving. Two beef pelmeni, one for each of them, weren't likely to be missed. With the help of a tiny matchbook bonfire, the frozen dumplings were softened enough to gnaw through. Together, they sat on a wooden bench to eat and watch the annual firework show, sharing what little warmth and comfort they had.

 

 

The bloom of colors over the city was almost enough to make them forget just how cold and miserable they were, and how little their meager meal had done to satisfy.

"It's the new year, Makka. Full of hope and possibility. Do you think they're still waiting for us?"

The young dog gave him a doubtful look, but didn't answer as to not dampen his spirits.

"I suppose you're right. We'd better get back to work if we're ever going to get home."

Moving helped them keep warm, too, even if it made them all the more tired. It was oh so late, and the crowds were getting thinner now that the fireworks were over. Vitya still had half a bag of matchbooks and only a handful of business cards to show for his efforts.

"It's a good thing that the metro runs all night tonight, isn't it, Makka?"

Makkachin agreed that it was good, though with everyone going into bars and clubs, he knew they would have very little luck at getting rid of the last of their cargo. No one would let a seven year-old and a pup into a place like that, even on New Year's.

Still they wandered, searching for anyone that might be willing, though each step got harder as his legs got colder. If that weren't enough, the wind began to play at their feet, whipping up the snow so they had to shield their eyes.

"Makka, I think I need to take a little break, don't you? At least until this wind goes away."

The poodle followed close behind his young master, eyes closed tight until they were out of the nasty weather. They found a doorway to huddle in, with strong marble columns against a heavy door that offered some protection against the wind. Viktor pulled Makkachin against his side and they waited.

"I think… when this stops, we ought to just go home, right?" Vitya asked, rubbing Makkachin's fleecy fur up and down to warm him up. "Or maybe if we knocked on one of these doors, someone would let us in, just for the night?"

It seemed unlikely. After being brushed aside so many times that evening, the thought of anyone taking them in was almost more of a joke than anything. Little Vitya unwrapped his scarf, rolling the fabric to get it loose, then rewrapped it to better cover his ears. There were people, he knew, that stayed out all night long in winter. He'd never done it before since he wasn't homeless, but he'd heard it was possible.

Then there were others- usually people that had no business being out at night -who slipped on ice or fell during snowstorms, and had to wait until spring to be discovered. The papers called them ‘snowdrops.'

The night sky seemed so different now that the city was getting quiet, peering into the cold blackness of space with its diamond stars. It was so lonely, and he knew that no one would come looking for them, even in the spring.

He lit the sparkler that the man had given to him earlier that evening, holding it out to watch the light dance and the embers fall.

 

 

"Hey, Makka?"

The shivering dog looked up at him, cocking his head to one side.

"What if we never went back? If we ran away?"

It was a line of questioning that they'd entertained many times in the past year.

"Maybe even Vaganova. Do you think, Makka?"

Makkachin thought it was a great idea, though it was a difficult academy to get into. But if Vitya did, he could learn all of the disciplines required of a great dancer, and they'd teach him not just ballet, but French and the arts, too. When he was finished, he could tour the world with a company, see everything far beyond the Baltic Sea.

The sparkler went out, and Vitya hummed. It was even later now, and they would never get home if they were frozen stiff. He could sacrifice one more matchbook to warm up his fingers a little.

Vitya broke one match off and lit the book, holding just the tip of it with his fingers, watching it burn bright in front of his eyes—  a wonderful distraction from that cold and empty sky. "There. Or, you know, if not ballet, maybe I could do something else. Figure skating? I've always wondered what that would be like."

 

 

Earlier that evening, they'd watched hundreds of people go round on the great outdoor rinks, circling each other and looping figure eights. The way they moved, it looked like they were flying. He'd watched it on television, too; seen the great skaters of Russia conquer the competition and bring home gold time and time again. What that must be like, to be a national hero? A champion!

Makkachin believed he could do anything, of course, and hoped Vitya knew that.

The boy continued. "Imagine if I had a coach. A personal coach that could teach me everything that I needed to do. I could go on to become famous, to really _do_ something with my life instead of… instead of being here."

The matchbook burned too close to his hands, and Vitya dropped it, which fizzled out as soon as it hit the snowy step. He put his finger tips in his mouth, and frowned. They were numb. It'd been a stupid thing to do. He needed to be more careful.

Makkachin took over, licking his fingers as gently as he could while Vitya tried to sort out his thoughts. He couldn't remember why it had seemed so important to give all the matchbooks away, not when it meant being out in the cold like this. "Hey, Makka?"

The dog only stopped licking long enough to look up at him, though he was getting tired. Too tired to keep shivering.

Vitya sniffed, and rubbed at his dog's ears. "You know what would be better than doing ballet or skating?"

Past the doorway, the wind howled, carrying the needles of hoarfrost to every corner it could find. That night, with the mighty Neva frozen solid, the little orphan boy Vitya cried, burning tears streaming down his rosy, frost-nipped cheeks.

Even then, he couldn't bring himself to admit that his parents were really, truly gone, and never coming back.

With a grunt, Makkachin pulled himself into Vitya's lap, pressing as close as he possibly could. It was all he could do to help; he was only a little dog, and he was so very cold.

"I guess it's just as well," Vitya said, wrapping his arms around him. "If I had anyone but you to love me, my heart would probably melt just like the Snow Maiden, right? And then where would we be?"

Though, as Vitya thought about it, that didn't seem to make sense. The Snow Maiden was Grandfather Frost's granddaughter, and his helper every New Year's, so perhaps she wasn't gone after all.

Even though she'd once been made of snow, the Snow Maiden was anything but cold. She was as valiant as Grandfather Frost and as fair as the Beauty of Spring, the two spirits who willed her into being. That made her a princess as far as he was concerned, though he'd rather have an ushanka than a kokoshnik tiara in this weather. If he were the Snow Maiden, it probably wouldn't matter either way, would it?

Her long robes were the color of hope— when the sky was, for just a few hours, free of winter's dark hold. The white fur trim would be made of rabbit; soft to the touch, and perfect for keeping all of the heat trapped in. Layers of fur and wool would work together, every inch of him covered from his chin down to his toes, and the top of his head. With hair in plaits, he could have his ears covered, too.

 

 

It was perfect. So perfect. If he could have moved, he'd have tried to braid it right then and there, but he couldn't. None of his limbs would move.

Instead he thought of the feasting. No herring; he and his grandfather would have suckling pig, and they'd light up the tree with a thousand tiny candles. A huge fire in the fireplace.

"Wouldn't that be something?" Vitya asked. "I can just see it… me, the Snow Maiden, riding in his troika sleigh, helping to take care of the forest, bringing gifts to other kids and fighting off the mischievous Baba Yaga. I could make friends with all of the animals… no more matchbooks. No more advertisements. Just you and me and Grandfather Frost. Makka, are you cold? Hold on, let me…"

 

 

He reached for the satchel to light another book, maybe even the whole thing, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He was too stiff, which was strange, since he was already starting to feel a little warmer. Vitya gave up, rubbing Makkachin's head with what little mobility he did have, and closed his eyes. It was easier to see it that way.

Three white horses, each with glittering silver hooves and red harnesses, trotting up the icy road with a polished troika behind them.

Three white horses.

And Grandfather Frost.

 

 

* * *

 

 ~*~*~*~

 

 

You see, someone had come looking for them after all.

 

~*~*~*~

 

* * *

 

 "Anyway, that is why, my dear Yuuri, we must always dress warmly for winter in Russia, da?" Viktor took the ushanka from the bench and dropped it on top of Yuuri's head, taking time to adjust until the fit was just right. "As we say here in Russia: _there is no bad weather, only unsuitable clothing._ "

 

Yuuri looked up at him past the mess of black, tangled hair matted in his face to Viktor, and took a moment to tuck it under the flaps of the furred hat. Then, he gave his boyfriend a startled nod. "Ri-right."

He wasn't the only one left shaken by the tale. Mila and Georgi had abandoned warm ups to listen, leaning against the barrier with expressions of equal parts horror and heartbreak. Yurio, meanwhile, yanked his boot off with a roll of his eyes.

"Tch. Nice story, Viktor. But it has a few problems."

The Russian legend, now Coach, turned a smile on his protege with patient amusement, slipping an arm around Yuuri in the process. "Hm? Like what?"

"It's full of shit. Do you just get off on being dramatic?"

"Dramatic? Yurio, I'm hurt. It was a very good story!" Viktor reached for the scarf next, looping it around Yuuri's neck. "Right, Yuuri?"

"It was good." Yuuri agreed. It wasn't unlike many of the others that had been told in the time they'd been together. Dramatic, and a little disturbing, even. Layered. There was a lot to what Viktor was saying without him coming out and actually _saying_ it. "But Yurio has a point. It wasn't very accurate."

Viktor frowned. "What do you mean?"

Yuuri adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. "You didn't have Makkachin when you were seven."

"I'm pretty sure you _did_ get to attend Vaganova, too." Georgi sighed, to which Mila nodded.

"But _oh,_ the Snow Maiden! I could see it, Viktor. You would have been so cute!"

"I know, Mila! Right?"

"You also DIDN'T DIE, you friggin idiot!"

"I guess I maybe embellished the facts a little bit…"

"A _little bit?!_ "

It was only by the grace of Yakov that Viktor was spared from having Yurio's skates chucked at his head, as he came stomping at that moment, clipboard in hand. "What is going on? Vitya, are you interrupting my skaters again?! Get out of the rink! This is their time!"

"Oh, but Coach Yakov!" Mila came to his rescue, as she often did, clasping her hands together. "Viktor was just telling us the tale of when he was a little orphan, trying to give away matchbooks on New Year's Eve."

"But he froze to death instead," Georgi added, clutching his chest. "It's so tragic."

"It's sentimental bullshit." Yurio, ever helpful, supplied.

"Oh he is, is he?" Yakov glanced between them, heavy brow as flat as his mouth, expression drawn in a scowl. "I've heard _that one_ before. It didn't work then and it won't work now. Get back to practice!"

"Aw, but Yakov," Viktor straightened the scarf at Yuuri's shoulder before trotting after the old man. "This time Makkachin is in it!"

That did nothing to sway Yakov, but it didn't really need to; it was time to go home. While the others got back to their business, be it skating or packing up, Viktor made sure that Yuuri was prepared to face the cold weather outside. Coat, hat, valenki, gloves, and scarf all accounted for, Viktor deemed him ready.

"There! And now we can go home."

"Viktor?"

"Unless you want to stop by somewhere on the way. Perhaps dinner?"

"Viktor… we can't go out."

"Ooh, we could order in, then." Viktor tapped his chin. "Stay inside."

Finally, Yuuri sighed and unwrapped two loops of the scarf from around his neck and closed the gap between them. "What I meant was, _you_ need to be warm, too." He took a quick glance at their rinkmates to make sure that they were otherwise occupied, then tossed the scarf behind Viktor's neck, pulling him close with a smile.

Viktor knew that look, and his attention was caught immediately, blinking helplessly down at him. "Oh, right." He hadn't put on his own coat or anything yet. But more than that, Yuuri had taken his hand where the others couldn't see, entwining their fingers.

"And you know… you'll never be left out in the cold ever again, Viktor."

 

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 


End file.
